


(keep your) unwanted distractions

by Areiton



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Olympics, Athletes, Discus Throw, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Pole Vaulting - Freeform, Secrets, oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 23:19:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13891248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: The way Stiles remembers it--he was on the plane headed to Tokyo when Isaac dropped into the seat next to him. Stiles grunts and shifts away from the younger man, a gymnast with a good shot at a medal, but Stiles wasn’t sure exactly what he did, and cared even less.“Did you see Hale?”Stiles scowls. “Who?”





	(keep your) unwanted distractions

**Author's Note:**

> [Translated in Chinese here! ](http://877658384.lofter.com/post/1d3bdacb_127c9f56)

The way Stiles remembers it--he was on the plane headed to Tokyo when Isaac dropped into the seat next to him. Stiles grunts and shifts away from the younger man, a gymnast with a good shot at a medal, but Stiles wasn’t sure exactly  _ what _ he did, and cared even less. 

“Did you see Hale?” 

Stiles scowls. “Who?” 

Isaac goes wide eyed and puppy bright, his boyish face splitting into a dirty grin that looks wrong on him. “Derek  _ Hale, _ dude, you haven’t seen him.” 

Stiles huffs and pauses his music. 

“Dude, why do I care?” 

Isaac forces his head around to where a dark haired,  _ gorgeous  _ man was leaning against Erica Reyes seat, laughing at something she said. 

“ _ That’s  _ why.”

Hale was pretty. Broad, muscular shoulders, a surprisingly delicate neck, the long lines of his back dipping into an ass that was definitely worth writing home about. Dark hair and stubble that looked fucking  _ sculpted. _

Stiles huffs and drops back into his seat, tugging away from Lahey and muttering. “Go away, dude. No distractions.” 

Lahey snorts and goes back to sighing and watching Hale from across the plane. 

 

~*~

 

The way Derek remembers is--he was in the practice field, warming up, when Dahler sidled up to him.

“Did you see the new vaulter?” 

Derek grunts. 

“He’s just your type, Hale,” Dahler almost purrs, and Derek glances up. It’s easy to pick out who the hell he’s talking about--Stilinski has been making a name for himself in track and field events for the past two years. He’s younger than the others, it’s his first Olympics and he’s fucking amazing. 

He’s also lanky and pale, with dark hair and mole speckled skin, a dichotomy of grace when he’s on the field and clumsy awkwardness everywhere else that makes Derek almost smile. 

Almost. 

He nudges Dahler aside. 

“Go fuck with someone else,” he mutters. “I’m not interested.” 

 

~*~

 

The thing was--Stiles knew Hale was hot. 

Anyone with working eyes and even a hint of a libido knew  _ that. _ It’s just--this was the Olympics.

He’d been working for  _ years _ to get here, and there were enough people saying he couldn’t do it, couldn’t possibly medal, that he didn’t have the time or patience for distractions. 

Not even distractions as fucking  _ gorgeous _ as Derek Hale. 

Scott said he should relax--that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity and he should enjoy it. 

There was even a part of him that wanted to. During Opening Ceremonies, he’d glanced over and seen Hale leaning into Erica Reyes and he’d considered it. 

Saying  _ fuck it _ for the night, just having  _ fun.  _

But then he took a breath and shook it off. 

Fun was great, but there was a time for that and it was  _ after  _ the medal ceremony. 

Even if it meant he didn’t speak to Derek Hale. 

 

~*~

 

It’s not that he didn’t like other people. Derek  _ liked _ other people. 

It’s just--the Olympics weren’t for making friends. 

Maybe if he were part of a team, he’d feel differently. Maybe if he wasn’t competing in a sport the USA hadn’t medalled in for over thirty years. Maybe if he were younger and had more of an opportunity for doing this in the future. 

Maybe a lot of things. 

But the fact was--he was trying to medal in discus throw and fighting a losing battle. He was working alone--the USA hadn’t even fielded another discus thrower. And this was it. Pushing twenty eight, he was still in good enough shape to make the attempt, but he wasn’t going to be coming back in four years. 

This  _ was _ his chance, and while the other USA track and field athletes shouted and filled up the halls of Olympic Village with noise, while they practice and then trouped out to watch the volleyball competition or the swimmers--Derek stayed. 

He lifted weights and watched the competition and practiced until his muscles burned and slept when he couldn’t practice anymore. 

He could watch the volleyball medal match, after he’d won. 

 

~*~

 

The worst part of competing on the international stage was that the whole world was watching. 

Which meant interviews. 

He grit his teeth as Heather marched him into a bevy of reporters, and she smiled, beatific, as he fumbled through the answers. 

Stiles was good at talking--he always had been, the real trick was getting him to shut up--but it was different when he was sweaty and shaking from training, and he wanted a shower and three hours with his training video, to analyze everything that he’d done right and wrong. 

He smiled, and answered inane questions and played nice, because he was pretty sure Lydia would shoot him if he didn’t. 

Until one--

“Stiles, are you seeing anyone?” 

Stiles stiffened and his smile, tense but genuine, went brittle and fake. “Not sure how my romantic entanglements or lack thereof have anything to do with how high I’ll fly tomorrow,” he says, easily, and Heather steps in, smooth as silk, cutting the interview off before he caused an international incident. 

 

~*~

 

“What makes you think you can win when thirty years of American Olympians haven’t?” 

Derek blinks. “I think any athlete  _ thinks _ they can win. If they don’t, they wouldn’t get to this field.” 

“Do you want to discuss your breakdown in Rio?” 

Derek’s face goes stony and he looks away. 

“Next question?” Laura says sharply. 

“Are you seeing anyone right now?” 

Derek huffs and stands up, walking out without waiting for Laura to do damage control. 

He really wished everyone could remember what the hell he was here for.

 

~*~

 

He can’t train constantly. His coach insisted he eat, gets some sleep. He snarled, but obeyed because he's right and Stiles knew it. 

It doesn't mean he  _ liked  _ it. 

Olympic Village was a mess of noise and chaos, the kind of place he'd love, if he were anywhere else. 

Now though, the noise was just that and it grates against his nerves, stole away his calm. 

The cafeteria was the worst, with the athletes from around the world gathering in a polyglot of language and shouting. 

He was, invariably, accosted by other athletes in track and field events, crowding into his table with noisy demands of attention and conversation. 

That's how he found himself across from Derek Hale.

The discus thrower extraordinaire, the best chance to medal that the USA had fielded in over two decades. Derek Hale who was pretty and surly and glared at his jello like it offended him while Erica Reyes--a gymnast and damn good at it--heckled him lightly about his salad. 

He really was as pretty as Lahey said. 

Stiles jerked out of his idle thoughts and stood, leaving without a word. 

 

~ *~

 

Derek must stare. He knew better, but he also knew he wasn’t quick enough to drag his eyes away from Stilinski’s retreating form, too busy cataloguing the long stretch of his back, the sway of his hips, his ass in those tight shorts, half hidden by an oversized sweatshirt. 

Long powerful legs that eat up the ground as he left. 

Reyes licked her lips and leaned into him, “He’s gorgeous.”

Derek’s eyes snapped away and he cleared his throat. “Not interested.”

She snorted. “Is that what that look was? Cause it looks remarkably like interested to me.”

It was. He just doesn’t want to admit it. 

He glared and shoved a spoonful of jello in his mouth. 

 

~*~

 

When he stepped into the gym and saw Hale there, jogging steadily on the treadmill, he almost walked out again. It’s quiet, or as quiet as the gym ever got, and for a moment, knowing they’ll be forced to at least  _ acknowledge  _ each other, he  _ almost  _ left. 

But there’s something soothing about Hale’s steady stride, eating up the miles on the treadmill and his own itchy impatience to run out the nerves that are building under his skin. 

He settled into a fast run, not pushing himself too hard, just enough that after an hour, his muscles would be burning and he’d fall asleep when he wobbled into his room. 

Hale ran, easy and comfortable at his side. 

 

~*~

 

He thought it should probably be strange, spending over an hour next to a man who looked like he was running from demons, but it wasn’t. 

Running next to Stilinski was easy, almost natural, and he ended up there longer than he planned, ignoring the buzz of his smartwatch that  _ had  _ to be his sister, or the one later that was probably his mother, Skyping from California. 

When he finally stopped, Stilinski slid him a careful look and Derek nodded, and then he was gone. 

Derek didn’t allow himself to wish the younger man stayed. He didn’t let himself feel lonely in his absence. 

He just slowed until he could step off the treadmill and called his mother back. 

 

~*~

 

There’s always a high that comes with competition. It’s not just the way he felt when he’s running, when there’s the sharp jar of the pole sticking and the tight arch of his body as the sky flashes over him, the way for a moment it feels like he’s weightless and flying, like if he pushes just a little further, gravity will never reclaim him, until he clears the bar and plummets back to earth. 

It’s not just the music that pounded in his ears and the jittery dance he did, hips popping, spastic and somehow sexy. It’s not just the tension as he waited for his turn, or the familiar feeling of chalk on his hands, or the stomach churning moment he waited for another athlete to run, waited for the bar to wobble and fall. 

It was everything. 

It was knowing that he’d fought for that moment for years, and no matter how it shook out--he was  _ there _ , focused completely in this moment and it would never come again, and he was  _ flying.  _

 

~*~

 

Lahey told him--often--that his calm during competition wasn’t normal. 

And the thing was--he knew it wasn’t. He knew that he should be anxious, pacing like the Germany world champion, or throwing up like the Scandinavian in second place right now. 

But he wasn’t. 

He sat, waiting patiently with his head tipped back, waiting to be called to compete, and he didn’t stress or even worry. Because he was ready. More than any USA competitor in discus had been in thirty years, Derek was  _ ready _ and he could feel it, the confidence and strength, thrumming through his blood, settling like a warm weight in his muscles. 

 

~*~

 

Once, he looked up. Looked away from his event, to watch as a discus thrower winds up and throws. 

He smiled, a small secret thing. 

 

~*~

 

He paused, once. His head came up and turned, following a pole vaulter as he ran forward, his breath caught in his throat as the boy flew, arching in a delicate curve over the bar before dropping back to the earth amid screams and cheers. 

He smiled, a small, proud thing. 

 

~*~

 

He cried on the podium, his flag draped over his shoulders, gold clenched between his fingers, and a radiant smile on his lips. 

He cried and he didn’t even give a shit because today he  _ flew. _ He flew and his coach and his dad are in the stands with Scott, and they’re cheering and he saw Hale there and he finally--finally--let himself smile at the other man. 

 

~*~

 

“Silver, huh?” 

Lahey sounded cautious. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be excited. Derek huffed a laugh. “We haven’t medaled in discus in thirty  _ years _ , Isaac. The silver is damn good.” 

Isaac grinned, and clapped Derek on the shoulder. “Does this mean you’ll finally fucking relax?” 

He thought of sharp, serious eyes and a wide laughing mouth, and tears on splotchy cheeks and nodded, a grin ticking up the corners of his mouth. “Yeah. I think so.” 

 

~*~

 

Scott was pressed against Stiles’ side, a wide puppy smile on his face, when Lahey and Reyes stumbled in, Boyd bringing up the rear. 

And they froze. 

Because Stiles. 

Stiles was sprawled back, cradled between Derek’s strong legs, his chin on the man’s thigh as he watched the game and his best friend and jabbered a mile a minute. 

“What--what--” Isaac gaped. “But you  _ hate him?”  _

“Fuck that,” Reyes snapped, “You don’t even  _ know _ him.” 

Stiles peered up at the two athletes, at Boyd’s vaguely baffled stare behind them and then looked up at Derek. 

“Do you wanna explain?” 

Derek huffed and leaned down, kissing him long and deep, a wet dirty kiss that made Erica whine and Scott gag, and Stiles--Stiles grinned dopily, when Derek pulled away. He gave the others a flat look. “We’re dating. Shut up.” 

“We’ve  _ been _ dating. For like, three years,” Stiles added, helpfully. 

“Then--”

“Why the fuck did you act like strangers this whole time?” Boyd demanded, a rare burst of temper and noise. 

Derek shrugged and Stiles laughed. “Dude. It’s the fucking  _ Olympics. _ ”

Their friends stared, kind of baffled, but Stiles ignored them, settling deeper into Derek’s embrace because good  _ lord _ he’d missed this, even if the isolation had been fantastic for his concentration and focus. Derek pressed a kiss to his hair and shouted encouragement to his baby sister. 

“Derek thinks it’s cheesy, but I want our rings to be silver and gold,” he told Scott, and sighed happily when Derek’s arms tightened around him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, Idk, this is just fluffy wish fulfillment. <3


End file.
